


Nightly activities behind the enemy line

by Snoozydog



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Control Issues, Dark Mycroft Holmes, Extremely Dubious Consent, Jealousy, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Rape/Non-con Elements, Resentment, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sibling Love, Sibling Rivalry, interfering!mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 13:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20724788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: Mycroft feels like his brother's behaviour towards him has become even worse since John Watson became his flatmate, so he decides to do something about it and hopefully rid himself of an unwanted enemy as well as teach his brother a valuable lesson in trust.But even the most carefully concocted plan sometimes consists of some unexpected blind spots.





	Nightly activities behind the enemy line

The door silently opened itself under his touch and he entered the darkened hallway. 

He knew that the habitants of the household were all asleep, two out of pure human behaviour and the third one because he had made sure of it earlier this evening.   
The good thing about his brother trying to show off in front of his insipid flatmate was that in his efforts to be insufferably snarky, his observational skills became lacking, he didn’t give all his undivided attention to Mycroft like he would when it was just the two of them. A slip of a little something into a cup of tea and then dropping a well-chosen comment of said tea’s poor taste to make sure that Sherlock would drink it just out of pure spite, to prove that he had no problem drinking whatever beverage was produced within the kitchen of 221 B Baker Street.   
That tea had gone down his brother’s throat with such ease it had taken all of Mycroft’s efforts not to stare at Sherlock’s long neck slightly bent backwards as he had made a show of not only tasting the tea but actually drinking it all in a swift motion of defiance.

“See? Nothing wrong with drinking tea from a teabag. Just your sensitive tastebuds being their usual foppish selves. Constantly residing in stuffy environments has rendered you even more snobbish than you were to begin with.”

This was the very reason why Mycroft was here now. 

The other day he had come to the end of his tether regarding Sherlock.   
Even if Mycroft was quite used to the impertinent behaviour his brother put him through on a fairly regular basis, even he had limits and that limit had been reached two days ago when Sherlock had taken this talent to new and very insulting heights. 

A huge part of it was that Sherlock did it all on account of John Watson, a person Mycroft saw the benefit of having around as a sort of security device, but otherwise cared nothing for and honestly didn’t see the appeal of.   
Sherlock apparently thought otherwise and as John cared as little for Mycroft as Mycroft cared for him, he seemingly derived immense pleasure when Sherlock put his older brother through a whipping session of insults and barbed sentences. 

It was difficult to say if it was the novelty of having a friend, a real one, of the human variety, that made Sherlock act the way he did. Even if there had always been an acerbic tone between him and Mycroft since childhood, everything multiplied tenfold as soon as the doctor was around and it became almost insufferable to stand.

Not that Mycroft saw himself as a completely innocent party.   
Deep down he knew he was overbearing and smothering and condescending and he nurtured his cold and superior persona the way one polished a beloved pair of shoes to keep them in mint condition, but still, it didn’t warrant the behaviour he was getting from Sherlock these days. There had always been an understanding between them, however prickly the tone sometimes was when speaking to each other, certain boundaries were not to be crossed and there was love, however rarely displayed, between them despite it all. 

But since the arrival of John Watson, Mycroft had begun to feel somewhat replaced in his brother’s affections.   
A friend and a brother were not the same of course, but it was still hurtful to see how easily John had wormed his way into Sherlock’s life while Mycroft had struggled to maintain his position from the day his brother had been born. Sherlock was a difficult individual to begin with and their brotherly rivalry had done nothing to ease things between them over the years, but there had been a few, if rare moments of shared affection over the years, treasured by Mycroft like a collection of precious pearls that he guarded protectively and he had somehow always believed the same to be true for Sherlock, even if they never had talked about it. 

As John Watson had now taken up residence with Sherlock, it was apparent that he was now the one Sherlock turned to and depended on and there was little space left for Mycroft to claim any right to his brother.

Well, Mycroft wasn’t one to sit idly by and accept this new development. 

Like in his line of work, when things needed to be fixed, he was usually the instigator and tonight he was here to arrange for things to change.

In no hurry, he began to ascend the seventeen steps leading up to his brother’s domain, carefully avoiding the most creaking ones. Who knew how light of a sleeper Doctor Watson was, despite residing even further up in the house? Mycroft had no wish to explain his presence here at this hour, even if bizarre behaviour was somewhat expected from him as much as it was from Sherlock. If the doctor should descend from his bedroom, weapon resolutely drawn, in search of a burglar or some other uncivil source for disturbance, Mycroft was certain he would be able to explain away his presence somehow, the doctor was hardly a genius and after living with Sherlock for a few months he was accustomed to the strangest of things happening.   
But it would still put a wrench in this carefully crafted plan of Mycroft’s, and it would be preferable if he was allowed to follow through with it without any disturbance.

As he reached the landing, he noticed that the door to the living room was slightly ajar and the door to the kitchen was fully open. As he had never visited the place at night he didn’t know if this was a custom that was normal for the household but he himself never went to bed without closing doors that shouldn’t be left open during night-time. 

Sherlock on the other hand had always been careless with doors, never tending to lock them, often not even bothering to keep them closed unless their mother had told him specifically to do so at bed-time, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to notice this habit still lingered. As John Watson slept on another floor, he either didn’t know of this habit or had given up on trying to teach Sherlock some new house rules. 

There was something vulnerable about the open doors that didn’t sit well with Mycroft. It felt like his little brother was exposed to all kinds of dangers that could come sneaking up the stairs in the middle of the night. 

Like he had just done, he thought with a touch of irony. 

He might have to do something about it later. Perhaps install a device that secretly would close the door with a remote that Mycroft could control from his own home perhaps. He would have to look into it.

As he navigated his way through the darkened and empty living room his pulse began to speed up a little, despite knowing that this wasn’t that different from the sort of operations he had participated in during the early days of his career, when he had still been forced to do some of the leg work himself. Well, he hadn't done anything _exactly_ like this, but, breaking and entering certainly had been a part of his performance on numerous occasions. 

But the fact that this was Sherlock’s home made this occasion so much more nerve-wracking. Sherlock was smarter than other people, not easily fooled and what Mycroft was about to do was so wrong on so many levels that if he for some reason failed with this mission, that failure would cost him dearly. 

Before reaching his destination, he stopped to retrieve a pair of nitrile gloves from his pocket and carefully put them on.   
Even if fingerprints were hardly going to be searched for, it still felt more sensible to not leave any traces considering where he was headed. Who knew what sort of experiment Sherlock decided to do in the future and even if Mycroft’s prints could easily be explained, he didn’t want to try clarifying why they had been found in such abundance in the room he was headed for.   
Besides, it was the most hygienic choice as well, this was his _Sherlock's_ home after all.

The door to his brother’s bedroom was firmly closed, a relief that he at least bothered with some decorum.   
Mycroft mentally crossed his fingers that it wouldn’t creak upon opening it. That was the problem with these old buildings, always full of surprising little noises all over, ready to be triggered at any unexpected moment by a person just being inside it. Luckily Sherlock had drank the whole cup, so he would be soundly asleep even if the door decided to put on a serenade of noise.

Still, Mycroft turned the handle carefully before letting the door silently fall open and reveal the inside of his sleeping brother’s bedroom in all its glory.

He had seen the inside of this room before, he was nosy enough to have searched through the place already on the first week of Sherlock moving in and had continued to do so on a regular basis ever since. But it was a different thing to see it during daylight hours when no one else was inside it. It was much more intimate to sneak inside during the night when the room’s occupant was innocently sleeping in the bed next to the door, out cold for the night in a way Mycroft hadn’t seen since their childhood.   
Sherlock always had been an erratic sleeper at best, very much the way he was when awake, all jittery and nervous energy even when knocked out. But right now, he was calm and quiet, burrowed deep into his pillow with the duvet wrapped around himself like an armour against a perceived chill in the room.

Mycroft couldn’t resist to let his eyes wander around the room in search for something new and interesting that he hadn’t seen there before. But it all looked more or less the same. Unlike the rest of the flat that was in a perpetual state of chaos, Sherlock’s bedroom was pristine in comparison. There wasn’t much furniture in it and things were neatly organized in a way that made you believe that someone else was responsible for the appalling disorder that presented itself just outside these walls. If only that had been the case, he thought dryly.

Mycroft walked over to the dresser and switched on the torchlight of his phone to spread some light while he rummaged through the content of the top drawer. He already knew what he would find by heart and yet he always was unable to resist taking a peek. 

The meagre collection of items was the same as it always was and he wasn’t sure if that was a relief or a disappointment. Sherlock could certainly keep far worse in his possession.

As expected he found a fake passport with a carefully altered picture of Sherlock and a different alias, a stolen keycard with Mycrofts name on it, a crumpled packet of old cigarettes and a pair of gloves in black leather that looked unused but was more likely kept in pristine condition and used for a specific purpose. Sherlock wore gloves outside when the weather demanded it, but it wasn’t this specific pair. Mycroft had happened upon the gloves before when searching through Sherlock’s possession but he had never managed to figure out what his brother used them for.

At the bottom of the drawer was a set of handcuffs.   
The Scotland Yard variety, so most likely nicked from that Detective Inspector Sherlock kept at his beck and call at all hours. 

The man was a sore point between the brothers without Sherlock knowing that this was actually the case. Mycroft had always wondered why someone from the police, old enough to serve as some sort of father substitute and far too yielding to all of Sherlock’s whims and barbs, still persisted in calling at all hours of the day and actively come looking for Sherlock when most people either lashed out or fled the scene whenever his brother entered a room. 

Why would anyone so persistently put up with Sherlock’s shenanigans if there wasn’t some sort of hidden agenda lurking in the background? 

Gregory Lestrade had eyes just like everyone else and assumingly a well-functioning libido as well, maybe he fancied a pert little arse to ogle at when Sherlock bent over on a crime scene? Who knew? 

He hadn’t acted on it at least and Sherlock, to Mycroft’s relief, didn’t seem interested in anything sexual with the man anyway.   
But still, the relationship didn’t sit well with him.

Speaking of sexual.......he was here to do some business and it was time to focus on that very task right now.

He turned his head to look at the sleeping form on the bed. 

His brother was still firmly asleep and just as tucked in as he had been when Mycroft had entered.  
It was with a reluctance that he stepped up to the bed to disturb this peaceful tableau. Sherlock so rarely slept or took the time to recharge his batteries, but Mycroft needed for this to be done and not waste time lingering on account of sentiment, so back to business it was. 

During his more active days in the past, he had certainly never wasted any time admiring the scenery and now was hardly the time to pick up such habits either. It actually surprised him a little that he had allowed himself to indulge in inconsequential tasks such as rummaging through his brother’s drawer or looking at his sleeping form instead of tending to his duties. He hoped this wasn’t a sign of turning softer with age, as he could hardly afford a more lenient attitude in his line of work.

Reaching over to turn on the small bedside lamp to see more clearly, he stowed away his phone again so both his hands could be free to use for what needed to be done.

Slowly he began to untuck his brother from the wrapping of the duvet, carefully at first, trying to assess how careful he would have to be, but when noticing how deeply asleep Sherlock was, he became more determined in his actions.  
Time was after all of essence and even if he was certain that the other two residents of the house were just as soundly asleep as the individual in front of him, there were a lot of unreliable factors that could disturb his plans at any moment in the form of unexpected calls from Scotland Yard, John Watson deciding that he needed a glass of water or a pee, a client making an impromptu visit or whatever else that went under the category of unforeseen but still very feasible disturbances that made up the existence of his brother.

Even other nightly visitors beside himself had occasionally breached the threshold of 221 B Baker Street. 

Mycroft remembered with a shudder how one of them had been carrying a sword, with the intent of beheading the consulting detective in his sleep. On that specific occasion precautions had not been made by said intruder and Sherlock had duly not been asleep, as he so rarely enjoyed that luxury, so therefor no beheading had taken place.   
Criminals really needed to put in a little effort when it came to research before they made housecalls with dubious intentions.   
Not only was Sherlock a light sleeper, on the nights he even made the effort to bother with sleeping at all, but he was also skilled in both boxing and martial arts. Thirdly he was being watched pretty extensively by Mycroft’s team, so the vengeful swordsman had naturally not been able to succeed in his plans but had instead suffered a defeat in a fight with Sherlock in the living room, lost his sword quickly enough in the scuffle and then involuntarily left through the bedroom window, landing on Mrs Hudson’s bins that were lined up on the street below.   
Mycroft had seen the video feed afterwards with clenched teeth and narrowed eyes, not happy about the situation, even if Sherlock had apparently managed just fine. 

That time. But who knew about next one?

With that, as well as all the other intrusions that risked cutting his own visit short, he went on with his business.

When finally managing to untangle his brother’s body sufficiently enough from the duvet, he made a quick process of removing his pyjama bottoms.   
Luckily for him, Sherlock had decided to only sleep with the pyjama bottoms and not a t-shirt as well, it made access more easily attained. 

Mycroft let his eyes assess his brother’s body for a second when he had finished stripping him. 

He had seen Sherlock semi-naked on numerous occasions even as an adult. Sherlock wasn’t particularly shy and had no problems parading about scantily clad in a flapping robe without pants, or a towel dangerously low on his narrow hips, he sometimes lounged about just like he had been dressed now, with a naked upper body and a pair of pants or pyjama bottoms.   
So strictly speaking this view wasn’t particularly new to Mycroft. And yet the full glory of complete nakedness was not something he had seen that often since they had stopped living together with their parent years ago, and even then, it had been rare. 

Mycroft had always been slightly insecure about his own physique so he had seldom opted for situations where he would be forced to remove any garments in front of his family. Or in front of anybody really.   
So therefor he had not seen much of Sherlock’s physique either, but he knew enough to know that his younger brother was far more fit and slim than he ever could hope to be himself. 

To prove that knowledge correct he could see it with his own eyes right now. 

Sherlock didn’t have much hair on his chest, he was nicely sculpted with a slender and wiry body, muscles defined beneath a very pale skin that wasn’t marred by any blemishes. 

To Mycroft’s huge chagrin Sherlock looked the way he himself wished he could have looked if he had bothered to put in any effort with his bodily appearance. 

It was all terribly superficial of course and beyond any real importance, but still, it did sting a bit that his younger brother had hit the jackpot in the family genetics pool regarding everything from body type to facial features as well as hair.

Sherlock asleep looked like he could have been cut from a piece of marble, those thick black curls perfecting the image even further by framing the beautifully sculpted face with high cheekbones and full lips as well as some long lashes that was frankly like icing on the cake. 

Why had his brother gotten everything while Mycroft had been left with not only a very deceitful body type that was prone to piling on weight whenever he didn’t bother to diet, thinning hear that had none of the glossy shine that his brother’s luscious curls offered, and then, as if to top it all off with more insult to injury, a beak of a nose in the middle of a face that was otherwise considered very weak and almost featureless? It all seemed very unfair.

Had Mycroft been a man more superficially prone, it would have bothered him immensely. 

As it was now, he knew how to present himself the way he wanted to bee looked at by people around him and he knew he had the impeccable taste in clothes that helped him hide what needed to be hidden an highlight what he wanted others to see, and he needed nothing more from his own appearance. 

And yet, when presented with what he could perhaps have looked like, if genetics had shared the bounty a little more equally, it did sting for a second. Shortly and over before it could even manifest itself as a proper thought, but a quick reminder of the unfairness of the world and life’s circumstances.

On the other hand, Sherlock had never benefitted from his looks in a way that truly had mattered to him and Mycroft couldn’t see how he would have done so either, but nonetheless, it would have been nice to draw a hand through a thick set of hair that was his own, just to know what it felt like.

Not opting for self-pity and maudlin thoughts, Mycroft tore his wandering eyes away from Sherlock’s appearance and concentrated on what he was here to do instead. To be fair, Sherlock’s appearance did play some part in why this plan would work in his favour. Without Sherlock’s dashing looks Mycroft wasn’t sure this would have been an option to really consider, keeping in mind what a difficult personality his brother had and how shallow other people were when it came to factors that made them like others and John Watson was like everyone else in that regard.   
Still, it was actually debatable if Sherlock would consider the coming events to be on account of his looks. He always had put more focus on championing his own intellect and it wouldn’t be surprising if he thought it was on account of his brilliant mind that he became the victim of Mycroft’s carefully orchestrated scheme. 

Reaching inside his inner coat pocket he produced a plastic bag that he brought out and weighed in his hand, containing a small vial with a corkscrew on top. 

This was the tricky part really, how to go about this, how far to take it he thought.

It needed to be enough to leave no question marks regarding what events had taken place, but at the same time, Mycroft didn’t wish to do any real damage.

When they had been children their grandfather had once bent Sherlock over a desk and whipped him five times in quick succession with a Malacca cane because the boy had been particularly obstinate and rude, even by his standards.   
Sherlock had been nine at the time and hadn’t really moved a muscle while the punishment took place, but afterwards his face had been white with suppressed rage. At least he had been smart enough to not let that anger manifest in any verbal outpour as that would most likely have earned him another five strokes. 

It had been the only time, to Mycroft’s knowledge, that Sherlock had been rendered speechless and pacified by a punishment and even if something had pinched a little inside his own chest at the sight of his little brother’s bare buttocks getting rather forcefully beaten by an elderly man, there had also been a satisfaction in watching it, and hopefully his own plan at avenging what he considered to be an unfair treatment of himself could render the same emotion afterwards. 

What he wanted most out of this was a change in status regarding John Watson.

Knowing his brother, even accounting for what a mercurial creature he was, there was bound to be a downgrade when it came to his relationship with his flatmate after this. 

The pure humiliation, and possible rage was bound to take care of that. 

It was Sherlock's actions when the initial reaction had settled that was the unknown variable, but it was inconsequential in the end exactly how Sherlock went about it, all Mycroft wanted was for the doctor to stop being someone his brother wanted to impress and connect to at Mycroft’s expense. 

Even if it sounded like it, it wasn’t all on account of jealousy. He needed to remain a certain amount of authority over Sherlock, it was for his brother’s own safety and Mycroft’s personal sanity. He knew he would not be able to handle any more loss of control.

Detaching any personal feelings behind his actions, he decided to be mechanical about his actions, just do what he had planned, be done with it and leave. This was for the sake of their brotherly bond, simple as that.

So he climbed up with one knee as support on the bed, next to his brother’s naked legs and carefully but with determination spread them wide enough to gain access to what he needed.

Mycroft knew that Sherlock wasn’t a virgin, despite what he himself had on occasion quipped, and however much Sherlock tried to pose as an asexual person.   
His brother had even had a boyfriend or lover or whatever title Victor Trevor had been presented with during Sherlock’s initial college years. And later on, when drugs had been an essential part of his existence, there had been some sexual favours exchanged for whatever chemical stimulation had been on sale, Mycroft had seen some of the evidence himself and he imagined that there were instances he hadn’t been privy to as well. 

But despite this knowledge, it felt like he was breaching something he shouldn’t have anything to do with as he looked at his brother’s placid genitals on display in front of him. 

Virgin or not, considering their blood bond, Mycroft should not have access to any of this. 

But needs must as the saying went, and he climbed up on the bed with his other knee as well and moved closer until he was bent over so he could touch what need to be touched. 

For a second he hesitated, then he opened the vial, put the corkscrew back in the bag and then poured some of the fluid on his gloved fingers, supressing the knowledge of what the fluid actual was, while rubbing it gently between his fingers before caressing the tip of his thumb gently against his brother’s scrotum. 

In Mycroft's line of business everything could be attained if asked for, and this particular fluid had hardly been a hardship to get his hands on, or even the strangest request he had ever made to those in charge of procuring such items.   
Blood, semen, real diamonds as well as fake ones, a plane full of dead bodies, it was all part of the job description. 

Like the rest of Sherlock’s body, his scrotum was surprisingly hairless and Mycroft wondered if that was mere coincidence or if Sherlock actively did something to maintain that status. It felt like he was caressing a teenage boy and if touching his brother’s scrotum wasn’t bad enough, the feeling that he was doing it to someone far too young made it even worse, despite the fact that his brother had reached adulthood years ago.   
Mycroft himself had plenty of pubic hair, covering pretty much everything down there, but even if Sherlock had a black thatch around his genitals, his balls were surprisingly soft and untouched by any coarse hair. 

Encircling his fingers around the penis, Mycroft made sure to cover it swiftly with the treacly fluid. Beneath his fingers he could sense how it reacted beneath his movements, not stiffening precisely, more noticing his presence. 

Mycroft ignored that, it was a natural reaction of course, stimulus in such a sensitive area was bound to cause some sort of instinctive reflex. The fact that he felt a tingling at the bottom of his own stomach, pooling down toward his groin was much more difficult to explain but almost as easily ignored. 

When confident that his brother’s privates were covered and sticky, he knew that it was time for the most difficult part of the plan, the part where none of the things he had done up until now really meant anything in comparison to what he was about to do and therefor also the riskiest, as it meant that Sherlock might actually wake up.

He had considered this part carefully while planning this, because he really didn’t want to cause any unnecessary pain and yet he needed for his brother to feel enough afterwards to draw the “right” conclusions. 

Mycroft’s choice had finally landed on just using his own hands, with gloves still on of course, because even if Sherlock would never be able to connect the dots to come up with this particular scenario and most likely wouldn’t want to obtain any DNA samples from his own anus afterwards, Mycroft wasn’t willing to put his actual fingers without any sort of protection up there. 

Just the thought made him almost shudder when thinking about how unhygienic that might be. And yet, despite that very notion having crossed his mind on several occasions, he couldn’t help but notice a jolt of anticipation as he breached the anus and carefully, with circular movements, began to stimulate the opening to prepare it for the impending intrusion.

Almost immediately Sherlock’s body stiffened and Mycroft froze, his eyes swivelling to his brother’s face to see if he was about to wake up. 

The dosage in the tea had been high enough but had on the other hand not been tested on Sherlock specifically, there was always a risk with drugging someone without any actual experience beforehand on how the person would respond to the drug. 

But beyond stiffening a little bit, Sherlock remained asleep and Mycroft put the reaction down to another bodily response that came automatically and not so much out of choice.

His fingers were sufficiently slick with the fluid, so after a few seconds of pause, he returned to the task at hand, slowly but determinedly getting further inside by scissoring his index finger and his middle finger. 

Sherlock was unsurprisingly very tight. As far as Mycroft knew, he hadn’t had sex in at least three years’ time. 

Not that he could boast of any sexual activities himself as of late. 

He had experimented in college like most people did but had lost his virginity rather late in comparison to the average individual of the same status, class and social background. 

Unlike Sherlock he had not enjoyed the luxury of attracting people with the aid of his looks, and teenagers and people in their early twenties wanted other attributes than the ones Mycroft could offer. 

Few cared about his intelligent prowess and the ambition to reach the highest echelons of his field without making a public name for himself. He had always strived to work in the shadows, control the people who publicly had the power but in reality were nothing more than mindless puppets with no ideas of their own to rule and govern. This strategy had suited him and his ideas for the future, but his fellow students and others at that age had failed to see it the way he did and remained unimpressed and uninterested in pursuing anything of a sexual relationship with him.   
He was simply not handsome, rich, fit or funny enough for their liking.

So when he had finally done the deed so to speak, he had been twenty-one and the experience had been swift, moist and not completely satisfying despite the giddiness he had felt about finally being able to cross out this experience of the list of things he had set for himself to achieve in life.   
Having sex shouldn’t technically have been on any list in the first place, it should have been a thing that just happened, but in his case it never did and when the time finally came, he considered the whole experience a little overrated. 

Over the years he had indulged a little when given the opportunity. He found it easier as he grew older as he moved in circles where people were either curious or ambitious enough to be tempted to have sex with the omnipotent Mycroft Holmes, but he was still not certain that he truly enjoyed the experience and more often than not didn’t pursue the matter with any particular interest.   
It had been six years since the last time and unlike his younger self, he didn’t think about that fact at all.

This was the closest he had been to a naked body that hadn’t been dead, for the past six years and this was by far the most intimate he had felt for at least ten.   
If he hadn’t so perfected the art of keeping his feelings in control, his cheeks would have flushed a bit as he pushed his fingers even deeper inside his brother’s anus, rummaging around in the tight bodily cavity that he strictly speaking should have no business investigating, but on account of some petty jealousy and a need for regaining control, found himself doing it despite the outlandishness of it all. 

And far worse than that....  
He began to feel that initial tingle that he had felt earlier pooling towards his groin, now quickly increasing to a pulsating sensation, and if he really made the effort to look into it, he noticed that his own penis began to twitch as well.

He should withdraw his fingers, he knew that, technically the procedure was over, he had achieved what he had come for, evidence planted, the scene set.   
There was nothing else he really needed to do. 

And yet he found himself inserting a third finger and enjoying the sensation that this resulted in his own body.  
It felt unexpectedly novel and strangely intimate in a way he would not have predicted. 

He had never allowed anyone’s fingers to be inserted into his own body and had never done it to anyone else, and yet it felt like he had no wish to put an end to what he was doing now. 

In fact, he found himself wondering what it would feel like without the nitrile gloves. 

As if watching himself from the side lines, he saw how his hand withdrew from his brother and his other hand determinedly removed the glove he had worn, tossing it on the floor in a fluid motion.

Then, as if his brain hadn’t yet caught up with what his body was doing, he watched the glove-free hand stretch its fingers before probing inside Sherlock’s anus once again, index finger and middle finger slipping inside while his thumb did circular movements around the opening. 

The sensation was unlike anything he had experienced before and his other hand, the one not currently occupied with probing his little brother’s arse, reached down to feel the bulging firmness that had begun to present itself inside his own trousers.

A quick glance at Sherlock’s penis told him that his brother’s body was reacting in a positive way to this as well, and unfortunately this just egged him on. 

Long gone and forgotten was the plan that had initially brought him here like a thief in the night with ill intentions. This was now about something completely different. It was about his own deeply hidden lust and the very unexpected discovery that what he was currently doing was giving him an immense sense of pleasure.

But as his fingers suddenly began to pick up the pace, hitting deeper inside Sherlock and causing his penis to rise curiously from its slumber, while his own was already pressing quite insistently against the fabric of his trousers, logic finally caught up with him and his movements came to a staggering and yet reluctant halt.

What exactly did he think he was doing?

He was here to frame John Watson to some acts that he knew Sherlock would not be able to tolerate. Waking up and finding himself in this very telling state, semen dried up and stale on not only his genitals but inside himself as well, the distinct feeling of having been probed, his undressed state and the only other occupants of the household being an elderly lady with arthritis and then his recently acquired, surprisingly steadfast and loyal flatmate, what other conclusions could he draw after realising that he must have been drugged and then raped, or at least sexually abused in his sleep? 

The process would be short and swift and most likely Doctor Watson would be out of the house within the next couple of days if not sooner. 

So why had Mycroft decided to complicate this neat little plan by risking not only exposure by staying longer than necessary, but also awakening some very disturbing feelings that had no place to ever see the light of day? Just because it felt so good?

No, he could not take this any further than he already had.

Quickly he withdrew his hand, bent down to retrieve the discarded glove and put it in the bag together with the now empty vial and then he stuffed it all inside his pocket again. 

He made sure to ruffle the sheets a little bit and gave the tableau one last assessing look to see that it looked exactly the way he wanted it to – a scene of sexual debauchery, his naked brother spread out in the middle of the rumpled bed, sticky legs spread widely, anus thoroughly probed and sticky as well. Even the smell of bodily fluids lingered in the air. It was everything he had hoped for and yet he felt a pang of regret when seeing it. He felt very reluctant to leave.

But instead of giving the reason for that reluctance a chance to manifest itself inside his head, Mycroft turned to the door and fled.

He didn’t bother to be as quiet on the way out as he had been on the way in. Somehow he knew no one would come anyway. 

As he walked in a brisk pace towards his waiting car outside, his penis was still pressing insistently against his trousers.

He waited a week and made sure to be preoccupied and out of reach for his brother, feeling the need to distance himself from his own deeds. His presence would only raise unnecessary suspicion, and this was something that would do well to take its own course now that he had set the ball rolling.

But after a week and a half, receiving no news from his intel about anything particular going on at his brother’s address, he couldn’t help but take a peek at some of the video feeds that surveillance had gathered from the past couple of days.

To his huge surprise and dismay, things did indeed appear to be just as they had been before he had intervened. 

There were pictures of John and Sherlock at a crime scene, Inspector Lestrade also present, the three of them looking at a muddy and very dead body washed up on the shore by the river. 

Then there were pictures of John doing the shopping at Tesco’s and carrying the bags home to Baker Street.

And then finally, there were pictures of the two flatmates taking what appeared to be an afternoon stroll through Regent’s park and it seemed as if nothing whatsoever troubled the pair.

Mycroft didn’t know if he felt more angry or perplexed by this conclusion and after yet another week of absence he finally decided that he needed to go investigate this situation more closely himself and ordered his car to take him to Baker Street for an impromptu afternoon visit.

This time Sherlock was alone when Mycroft showed himself in. 

He was seated by his desk, impeccably dressed in one of his slim fitting shirts and a dressing gown casually thrown over his slender frame, looking at something on his computer but clearly nothing of any significant interest as he actually raised his eyes from the screen to look at Mycroft as he entered. 

Mycroft made a point of being in no hurry to arrange himself in the empty chair that usually had John Watson firmly planted in it. Even if the doctor wasn’t there to witness it, it felt like a small victory to occupy the man’s chair, even in his absence.

Sherlock hadn’t said a word since he had walked into to room, but that was considered norm rather than deviation in their interaction. They didn’t always need words to communicate what they wanted to convey, satisfied to interact through looks and small gestures in their body language. 

This was not such an occasion though. Mycroft was fully prepared to do the talking as long as he would be able to suss out what exactly had happened between Sherlock and his flatmate and why John apparently seemed to not only still be living here, but also enjoying the same status that he had always had, sharing space, time and company with Sherlock, tagging along on crime investigations and being the most perfect flatmate for the most difficult man in London.

But apparently Sherlock was not in a talkative mood, as he remained silent and generally indifferent to the reason for Mycroft’s visit, not even a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes as he watched his older brother lean back comfortably in his chair while considering how to go avout the subject.

Finally Mycroft recognised that if he wanted to know, he would have to actually ask, however much he detested to be seen as nosy. He knew that his incessant surveillance of his brother communicated that sufficiently as it was and didn’t need any further fuel to stoke that particular fire. But still, this situation demanded a straight-forwardness.

“Where is your faithful flatmate today?” he began, “I thought you were perpetually glued together at the hip. My sources tell me he recently lost his position as a GP at that latest place he rarely spent any time working in, so assumingly he isn’t performing any of his medical duties, which usually means he isn’t far from your side.”

He put as much aloofness as he could muster into that sentence, as he couldn’t be seen actually caring of the whereabouts of a person he never usually bothered to ask about unless absolutely necessary.

Sherlock gave him a quick glance before shrugging and rising from his chair.

“He’s upstairs. Doing whatever it is that he does in that boring little room of his. Or he’s outside perhaps. I can’t be asked to keep track of him at all hours of the day when there are infinitively more interesting things to put my mind to.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at that. 

Maybe things weren’t as peaceful between the flatmates as he had at first assumed. 

“Do I detect a hint of reproach in your statement, little brother?” he dared to ask.

Another shrug from Sherlock before he went over to his chair opposite the one Mycroft was sitting in. He sank down into it like a cat elegantly claiming its place. He looked as, if possible, he would have produced a satisfied purr. It went quite against the words he had just spoken which hinted at some sort of irritation. His body language spoke differently though and it vexed Mycroft that Sherlock was sending him conflicting signals.

“Is there some disagreement between you?” Mycroft finally ventured when his brother offered nothing more in way of an explanation.

Sherlock looked at him calmly.

“Is that why you’re here? To talk about John Watson?”

Mycroft backpaddled a bit. It was obviously the wrong time to probe deeper without raising suspicion. 

“No, not at all. I’m merely making polite conversation,” he offered and lowered his eyes to study the repetitive pattern of his pinstripe trousers as if it was of the deepest fascination to him. 

He felt Sherlock’s eyes still resting on him and if he wanted to keep on top of this conversation, he would have to meet his brother’s eyes within the next two seconds or Sherlock would know that something was off.

Boldly he raised his head to return his brother’s inquisitive stare and put his energy in remaining just as aloof as he had pretended to be since entering the room.

“We are brothers, Sherlock. I am as ever concerned about your welfare and part of that is to stop by and see how things are faring in this life you have built for yourself. It’s no more complicated than that.”

“I never said it was,” Sherlock immediately quipped.

“I never suggested you did,” Mycroft bit back, already feeling his usual hackles beginning to rise, as they often did when trying to communicate with this little brat of a brother that he had the misfortune to be tied to by a family bond but also, by foolishly caring about him as well.

“Good then,” Sherlock nodded, as if having won some sort of word feud Mycroft hadn’t even meant to be engaged in.

“Yes, good indeed,” he mumbled instead, hoping that it would put an end to whatever Sherlock was playing at.

But his brother cockishly put his head a little to the side, still eying Mycroft as if he was suddenly infinitely fascinating. Clearly, he wasn’t done playing whatever game he was currently occupying his mind with.

“So this is social call then?” he said, a surprisingly silky tone suddenly incorporating itself into his usual voice.

“You might say that, yes,” Mycroft concluded, while wondering if he should just cut his losses and return another day when Sherlock wasn’t in one of his strange moods. There was no talking to him when you had no idea what he was actually up to and Mycroft wasn’t going to get any answers regarding John Watson either way. Not from this particular source.

But it seemed as if Sherlock wasn't willing to let him just leave. A small smile had begun to linger at the corners of his mouth in an alarmingly devilish fashion. 

“Well then, Mycroft", he purred, "Why don’t you make us some tea then, seeing as this is a social call and those usually consist of at least one decent cup?”

Mycroft felt himself stiffen involuntarily at the mention of tea, as he stared at his brother’s peevishly smiling face.

“Excuse me?” he said like the idiot he was beginning to feel like while the smile spread even wider across his little brother’s face, a glimmer of something indiscernible in his eyes now. 

As Sherlock leant forward to look more closely at Mycroft, the smoothness of his voice had increased even further and felt like a caress as he drilled his eyes into his older brother’s frozen features.

“I had such an invigorating cup of tea the last time you were here and the result lasted well into the nightly hours. It almost had something very familiar about it that I can’t quite put my finger on. But I’m sure you know exactly how to do a repeat performance....”


End file.
